


Working Theory

by Aithilin



Series: Pub Crawl [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:46:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second time John and Lestrade go for drinks, John realizes that the DI may provide some insight on Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working Theory

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to be incapable of actually writing a Gen story, and this has already started to plot out to end up in slash. In the meantime, Lestrade is fun to write.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this. Likenesses belong to respective actors.

“At least you’re not a damn experiment.”

“True.” John doesn’t have to look to hear the grin around the word. “He’s not threatening to put you in the microwave, is he?”

It’s not a Tuesday this time. There’s no news scrolling across the huge television, and this pub is a bit closer to Baker Street. There was no crime scene this time, no mystery to unravel, and for all intents and purposes there was nothing to differentiate this Thursday from any other. Only Sherlock had been bored, and that meant that he was driving John mad with his insomnia and frustration.

This pub is smaller than the one from a month ago. It’s got booths rather than the sprawl of tables, and cricket bats painted with the logos of various teams pinned to the wall. At four in the afternoon, John had nearly called up colleagues from work to invite out— just for a sense of normalcy after Sherlock has proposed the need for cyanide in the apartment. Instead, he found that he needed a brother-in-arms in this situation and checked in on Lestrade. For the first few pints, they had watched the game playing on screen— John wasn’t actually certain what sort of sports Lestrade enjoyed, but he seemed happy enough to mutter his own curses against the commentators when they interrupted the gameplay for some analysis.

“No, god no.” John tries to ignore the ruckus caused in the corner closest to the telly. It was getting into a proper evening now, and the pub had started to fill out for the game and sports’ commentary that made up the passion of the regulars. Somewhere along the line, when the players were getting worn down enough to have the audience yelling at the screen, John found that he’d rather be watching somewhere quieter, with Lestrade’s better observations. “But I’m only there to prove his pet theory about deduction.”

“Which is?”

“That normal people can be taught it. He seems to think a doctor should know how to deduce things more quickly.”

“He’s got a point.” Lestrade offered a shrug— one shoulder, a mild tilt of his head (John berated himself for actually noticing that and being able to categorize the dismissive gesture)— and sipped his tap beer before clarifying at John’s dirty look. “Doesn’t mean he’s not a prat, mind. But you do all the same things when some bloke comes to you with the sniffles. Same questions and all that.”

“And did he try to teach you?”

“Course he did, but he wasn’t very serious about the whole thing. ‘Bout four years ago before he figured it was a bad idea.” That grin was back, roguish and a clear invitation for John to pry deeper on the topic. “Didn’t know he got that worked up into some sort of working theory.”

John didn’t, at first, letting the sounds of the crowd of fans cheering for their teams distract him into watching a bit of the quick-moving pictures on the screen across the room. When the commentators pulled up the stills to draw the plays and strategies for the fans, John spoke again. “What happened?”

“Deduced where he kept his drugs three years ago. Got him to lay off quick enough.”

John can’t help but laugh at the idea of it. Though, when he’s had time to think it over, he wondered if Sherlock had used his teaching theory as a call for help. He wouldn’t put it past the man to do something that elaborate to both buy him time to enjoy what he could before the inevitable intervention, and feel smug that his experiment to teach proper deduction to Lestrade was a success.

It’s Lestrade’s phone that interrupts the outing first, this time. There were no cases on, that John really knew off— none that required Sherlock, in any case— but he supposed that Lestrade tended to look exhausted for a reason. There’s more to say, and far more drinking to be done if they kept on the topic of Sherlock. But for now, it seemed like duty was calling them back into a reality far less comfortable than the little pub space they had decided to occupy. Pocketing the phone once he’s checked the message, Lestrade gets up from his seat.

“Just a tip, John: if Sherlock’s looking to get you deducing things like him, it’s because he’s a selfish bastard. He wants you to see something.”

A nod of understanding and Lestrade’s grin is back. “’Course, if you don’t like what he wants to show you, just tell him to piss off.”

“That never works.” A few notes to cover the tab are placed on the bar under John’s glass, and were picked up almost immediately by the bartender. “Just gets him sulking for days on end.”

On their way to the door, John thought that Lestrade was considering that little tidbit of information. He wasn’t sure why. Sherlock sulked when he didn’t get his way, it happened, often. Before they part ways, Lestrade seemed to reach a conclusion and patted John’s shoulder. “Next time, then. And we stop talking about that damn prat.”


End file.
